TCOR: Prophecies of the Ascendant
by Extant
Summary: The same seer who fortold the triumph of a Furyan over Lord Marshall also revealed three other prophecies to the allied races. Eventual RK. Current chapter: Redux of post-PB: Imam receives a revelation during prayer.
1. Prelude

A.N.: This is a story I originally started more than three years ago now under the penname PrivateAsylum, but I never got past writing the Prelude, despite my endless plot notes. Through all the insanity of the past three years, I kept those notes and notebooks, some part of me unwilling to throw them away. And now, I can tell only God why, suddenly the need to write this story has gripped me again.

For better or for worse, I think that some of the things I've been through the past few years allows me to understand the characters well, especially Riddick and Kyra. So I'm not going to hold back from getting inside their heads. This will be a heavily psychology and motivation driven story. But there's always the possibility that I've got it totally wrong, so feel free to take a blow torch to me if you think I'm way off.

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters. I will own up to what I do with them.

CHRONICLES OF RIDDICK:

PROPHECIES OF THE ASCENDANT

PRELUDE

_From the undecrypted journals of Argus, the Seer:_

_It is clear to me that not one of us moves without reason. Not one of us exists without purpose and destiny. Every movement, every breath is essential to the operation of a carefully choreographed and evolving machine, so that the enemy we fear is as vital as the leader we love, and the saved as inomissable and powerful as the savior._

_But what of freewill? If we move in fate, and yet have no knowledge, is it still choice? Could the subject have been king, and the king have been ruled, so long as each part were played? And what becomes of love, and of courage? For without free will there is neither, and the mortal's strive to evolve, the very quintessence of humanity, is reduced to illusion. But what purpose, what destiny, lies in illusion?_

_It is the conundrum which haunts me, and which quickly becomes his shadow._

The hall smelled of blood and tasted of death, acrid and cloying, and a heavy, final silence thickened the air and pushed against the confining stone walls. The Necromonger court stood in stunned quiescence, paralyzed at the sight of their Lord, the base of the broken blade protruding from his skull glinting in the light.

But Riddick saw none of this now.

His eyes locked with Kyra's where she lay beside the throne, and an alien desperation rose within him. He rushed to her side on legs searing and spent, not shifting his sight even as Vaako and Scales step forward, or noticing that they only stood above the body of their Lord and made no attempt to stop him, but passed them blindly. They could not have been able to stop him had they tried.

Desperation turned to desolation as he reached her and sank to his knees. He reached out and hesitated, his hand hovering a moment above her: blood was spreading across her back and beneath her.

Gently he turned her over and lifted her in his arms. She closed her eyes, wincing with a suffering she was not supposed to be able feel, and reached for him, her fingers finding his elbow and arm and frailly gripping him. Pained relief flooded her face, and she took a weak breath, struggling against the blood slowly filling her lungs.

"I thought you were dead," she murmured.

Anguish twisted his features. "Are you with me, Kyra?" But he already knew the answer. She was slipping from him, and he was powerless to save her now.

The defeat in his voice ripped through her, and with effort she opened her eyes to meet his gaze. The expression she saw there, the deep grief she could not have conceived him capable of five years ago, shattered all remnants of the long anger and bitterness she had held for him, and she found herself looking up no longer at a convict, her hero, her abandoner, cold and impenetrable, but a stranger, and a man unwilling to let her go. "I was always with you," she breathed, her eyes, shining with tears unshed, begging him with all her remaining strength to hear her, to understand. "_I was_."

And for a moment he knew, and tried to nod, wanted to speak, but couldn't, too afraid that with that final comfort she would let go. She held his gaze a moment longer, and he saw her eyes lose focus as her gaze drifted away from him. She tried to take one last inhalation, but her body failed her, and he felt her fall still in his hands, her fingers graze his skin, their touch disappear as her hands fell, and her face turned away from him.

He laid her gently down on the cold stone and covered his eyes, unable to look away, trying to breathe against the burning grief that clutched at his throat. He rose and staggered, groping blindly for something to steady him. His hand found the arm of the throne, and he sank down absently onto the edge of the seat and crumpled back into it.

The pulsing rhythm of footsteps pulled vaguely at his senses, drawing him back to his surroundings as the Necromongers closed in, heavy and slow, the sound of approaching death. In a moment, he knew, there would be a cry of rage from within the crowd, and they would rush upon him, weapons raised, and crash over him in a wave of revenge. But he sat unmoving, grief passing away into a strange relief he never would have expected of himself that this time there was nowhere to run, that, finally, it would truly be over.

But the expected onslaught did not come. The footsteps paused, and Riddick with disjointed confusion looked up as one by one, and then together, the Necromongers began to kneel, before him and on the balconies above.

Commander Vaako spoke in a voice darkly, "You keep what you kill."

Riddick, seated on the throne, found himself suddenly the ruler of a powerful army. But he looked out across the assembled as though he had discovered a new Hell, numb and cold, the only thing he had wanted already lost to him, lying dead at his feet.


	2. Redux I

CHRONICLES OF RIDDICK:

A.N.: I am disregarding 'Dark Fury' as canon for this story because of inconsistencies between that movie and TCOR. Specifically, in the end of DF, Imam brings up the subject of Riddick's influence on Jack and explicitly implies that it would be a good idea if Riddick left. But in TCOR, we see Imam bewailing Riddick for leaving, as though he had thought it would have been an undeniably good thing for Riddick to have stayed, and tells Riddick that Jack had needed him. There's no way to fit those two puzzle pieces together (unless there's a huge third piece we're missing in between). Imam's position in DF is predictable; his position in TCOR is by far more interesting. So I'm writing my own version of what happened after PB, to resolve the contradiction in DF and to set up the characters' psychology.

CHRONICLES OF RIDDICK:

PROPHECIES OF THE ASCENDANT

PROLOGUE: REDUX

_Five years earlier..._

Riddick preferred dark weather the way he preferred the night. That from which others sought refuge he took as his element. In the achromatic violence of the pounding rain he walked the open streets, his distinctive figure concealed by the obscuring lines of a drenched cloak and a bowed head, the hood pulled down over his uncovered eyes. If the gaze of any passerby briefly crossed his mercurial own, the shining seen there melded indistinguishably with the omnipresent aluminous light, seeming only a reflection of the environment rather than anything unnatural, and quickly their eyes returned to the road ahead of them, peering through the drops that hung from their lashes and stung their vision to find the shallowest part of the next puddle in a vain attempt to try to keep dry robes that already clung to their limbs.

It was in this way that Riddick passed through the streets of New Mecca. It amused him to walk this way. Riddick the criminal, Riddick the killer, brushed by people unaware, their bodies hunched against the deluge and he no more than an afterthought in their minds, quickly forgotten.

Ducking under the overhang of an unattended corner shop, Riddick surveyed the main fare. In the rare downfall the market was almost empty, the only people present those on their way to some business too vital to wait out the weather and the few vendors who were too desperate for customers to close up shop or abandon their stalls. The rain swallowed most noise of words and footsteps, leaving the street only the long percussion of the rain, the voicelessness of all human life like a breath held under the storm's oppressive release.

Next to him, under her own sopping cloak, Jack looked up at him in anticipation. He glanced down at her, and she broke into a grin, water dripping down her face from the hood clinging to her stubbled head. Riddick regarded her a moment with veiled curiosity before his eyes returned to the street ahead, the barest hint of an ironic smirk flitting briefly across the corner of his mouth; not even the torrential rain could dampen the kid's spirits, or her excitement at getting to venture out with him.

It had been four months since the crash of the Hunter-Gratzner on that monster-infested hell; four months since the subsequent escape from T-2 on the skiff with the cleric and the girl. Four months – albeit in and out of cryosleep - he had spent traveling with them - the longest he had spent traveling with anyone in more than half his life.

There had been few supplies on the skiff: two packs of cryodried rations and a couple days worth of stale water they had stretched over six. They had stopped at the first inhabited planet they had come to, a dark, seedy outpost where their damaged ship hadn't stood out - Riddick could not have been able to plan it better if he had tried. Though he had been relieved to see civilization, the place had still made Imam uneasy, and he had asked if there was not another place they could make; but their fuel had been low, and systems had been threatening to give way. So they had landed to resupply and refuel, obtaining honestly what they could, Riddick stealing what they could not. Imam had finally protested when he had returned with three cryosleep systems and began hooking them up. "We need to keep moving," Riddick had countered shortly. "Long time between stops. Or would you rather stay here?"

"There must be some other way to get what we need besides theft."

Riddick had turned to him, eyes narrowed, and had coldly growled, "Got any suggestions?" The cleric had fallen silent, a frown chasing the short lived indignation from his face, and it had satisfied Riddick for a moment to see the holy man struggle with himself as he realized for the first time the logic of such sins.

They had taken off almost immediately to avoid any suspicions. Late that night, after Jack had fallen asleep in the back of the small ship, Imam had joined Riddick where he was finishing installing the cryosleep system on the pilot's chair. "I wish to continue my journey," he had spoken solemnly, and Riddick had listened with some surprise. He had expected this to come up, but not for several days more, or not until after he had split, whichever came first. "I do not want my boys to have died for nothing." Riddick had continued working without responding, and Imam had glanced back at Jack where she slept. "I will take her with me. There is no need for her to go to a shelter or orphanage." He had paused hesitantly. "This may be a second chance for you as well, my friend," and Riddick had raised an eyebrow at Imam's last word. "A chance to start a new life, free of prisons or being hunted. I will help you, if it's what you want."

Riddick had almost laughed. If every merc's creed was greed, then it was every convict's religion to run, something Imam didn't understand. It wasn't a way of life - it was life. Once born again by one's first crime, baptized by bounty, the only way out was prison or death - two words synonymous for anyone who had ever had a taste of life in the slam. They might believe him dead for now, but not forever. Sooner or later it would be discovered that he'd survived the crash, and as soon as they caught his scent they would be after him again. The price on his head was too tempting. To play it steady, to stay with the cleric and the girl...

_That's the last thing I'd do_, Riddick had chuckled silently - then thought again. _And the last thing those damn mercs would expect._

He had surveyed Imam sidelong from behind his goggles. If he stayed with them for a while, let Imam handle all the finances and arrangements, the only thing to testify to his passage might be a couple of witnesses - and if he were careful not even that. There would be no signs, no trail for the mercs to follow. By the time the bounty hunters had figured out he hadn't died, he had thought, he would be long gone, leaving nothing to tell them where to start looking.

"...I know she would want you to stay. You have a chance to show her how to live a better life. Will you come with us?"

Riddick plugged in the last tube and hit the switch. Power coursed through the machine and it began to glow and hum. "Well, I'm the one with the ship and supplies," he had said at last. "So you'd better pray I'm coming."

Imam had smiled and rose. "Good. We will speak in the morning, my friend." And he had retreated to the back of the skiff. Riddick had watched him go over his shoulder, an unfamiliar ambivalence about his deception prickling at the edge of his thoughts.

They had been able to make New Mecca in fourteen weeks, taking a more direct route than what had been planned for the doomed transport vessel. They had spent most of the time in cryo, stopping twice more for fuel and repairs, Riddick not wanting to purchase (or steal) too much at any one place lest it drew attention to their already unlikely traveling party.

They had finally arrived on Helion Prime two weeks ago, descending into the atmosphere a couple hundred miles from New Mecca to avoid the air patrols and coasting in low over the desert surface. Rising over the crest of a sandy dune they had had their first glimpse of the city: the pristine burnt gold of the earthen walls; banners, pennants, and laundry fluttering in the wind; the towering minarets, steeples, and domes of temples and city buildings coloring the skyline; and, towering above all, the pillars of light rising, commanding even in the bright desert sun, like intangible statues of idols ascending until they melded with the sky. Imam, standing behind Riddick and silently peering ahead for the first signs of the city, had fallen to his knees, his clutched prayer beads pressing into his palm and tears rolling freely into his beard as he had quietly wailed a euphoric prayer. Jack, revived, had whooped and cheered, jumping from her chair.

It looked, Riddick had decided, watching the elite guard patrol ships glide over the city, better policed and governed than some warfare nations – an unlikely place for a criminal to try to hide, and, he had thought, an unlikely place for mercs to look for him. At least for a little while.


	3. Redux II

A/N: Sorry it took me so long to update! I had midterms (I got 100% on both!), and this was a _really_ hard scene. It's almost all dialogue and character psychology, is essential to the charaters' relationship, and it had me banging my head against the wall. I'm really hoping this section jumps off the page, but (as always) flame me if you think I'm way off. (And praise me if you think I'm on!)

This section picks up right where the last one left off. Read them as if they were on the same page, no breaks.

---

They had parked the skiff at a commercial hanger on the edge of the city, slipping the attendant most of what was left of their creds to compensate him for forgetting their lack of passenger manifest or ship registrations. While Imam and Jack had slept in a cheap inn, Riddick had passed the dark hours perusing the avenues and rooftops, unwilling to sleep until he knew the streets by night, until he had seen the dark corners and inhabited shadows of the city that only came alive with the fall of dusk. He had found little to be impressed by: like every city, New Mecca had its red light district, its street dwellers, its petty thugs, traffickers, and their customers; but they were consigned to a small district. Most of the city slept quietly, the streets silent but for the occasional passing of a transport or the yapping of a dog. Only twice did he see any man of familiar demeanor, a man who had perhaps spent time in a hard slam, and both had quickly disappeared from view, wary of the patrols that passed overhead.

He had met up with Imam and Jack at daybreak as the first melodic notes of the morning call to prayer dawned over the city, staying with Jack in the dimly lit restaurant below the inn and drinking serrated coffee while Imam had rushed off to the mosque. The holy man had returned triumphantly a couple hours later. "Wonderful news!" he had exclaimed elatedly, joining them at their corner booth. "I was able to meet with the ayatollah of the mosque. They had a position which they have hired me to fill, and all is cared for! They even have a house they can provide for us which we can move into immediately."

"What did you tell them?" Riddick asked warily.

"Much of the truth. That the transport vessel I had been on had crashed, that I had come here by way of a smaller ship we had found on the planet." Riddick had frowned darkly. "I mentioned Jack briefly, that the child would be living with me. They know nothing of you."

"And who did you say was _flying_ the ship?"

Imam had frowned as well when he realized what Riddick was getting at: neither Imam nor Jack could have been the one to pilot the skiff, leaving an obvious hole in Imam's censored truth. "Fortunately, they did not ask."

_Shit. Let's hope they don't either,_ Riddick had thought.

"Please tell me they don't know I'm a girl," Jack had cut in anxiously.

Imam had looked at her, puzzled. "No, I did not tell them. Only your name. But why is that important?"

Jack had sat back, both relieved and sullen. "It's just safer that way." She had raised her eyes to the cleric. "Don't tell them, okay?"

The directions Imam had been given led the trio to a bustling cobbled courtyard, enclosed by buildings on three sides. The address was a narrow two story house tucked into the corner, a living area and tiny kitchen on the first floor, with stairs by the entrance going up to two bedrooms and a study. The place had been unoccupied for a while: a draft of stagnant air greeted them when they opened the door, and dust coated every surface. The place was sparsely furnished with a sagging couch, a couple broken down chairs, and a rickety table, and the woodwork and beams, obviously once beautiful and ornate, were rough and splintered. But Jack had run through the house jubilantly, covering every inch of it twice as though there could be nothing better, and Imam was satisfied. That night Imam and Jack had slept on worn mats, each in a bedroom, while Riddick had bunked on the couch downstairs, listening even as he slept for the sound of hunting mercs.

Imam had reported to the mosque early the next morning and the day after, while Riddick and Jack stayed at the house. Riddick had expected the girl to be at his heels as soon as she woke, but to his surprise and relief she remained upstairs until Imam came home, only coming down briefly to grab some food at noon, as though knowing he would need his space for a couple days after so long confined in cramped quarters with them. Now that he had stopped, exhaustion from the ordeal on T-2 and traveling injured finally settled over him, and he had spent most of the first day sprawled over the couch, an arm over his eyes to block out the light. But sleep had come fitfully. Muffled sounds of voices, foot traffic, and engines from the street had drifted through the shuttered windows, foreign and unsettling, and he had kept jolting awake at every odd hum and clatter.

By the second day he had been ready to bolt. How long did he have until the mercs realized he hadn't died on T-2? Which one of the stops they'd had to make would be the one that gave him away? It wasn't that first stop that worried him; it was the two they had made after. He had kept their layovers brief, and they had made the effort to be seen together as little as possible. But it hadn't been entirely avoidable, and he knew they had drawn attention: a tall, dignified cleric and a burly, inimical man made odd traveling companions. And while Jack had continued to play a boy, Riddick knew from a few knowing looks they had been given that she had not managed to fool those with keener talents of observation. She obviously didn't belong to Imam, and was too old to be his, which left a very limited number of assumptions about what she was doing with them – none of which would have been right.

Yeah, they had caught attention. Even on planets where the illicit was common law, there was always someone willing to talk – especially if it got them a couple extra creds, and where there was a payday like his involved, mercs were always willing to throw a treat to someone who tipped them off. The only question was where they would pick up his trail. The earlier the stop, the longer it would take them to track him down. Whether he had a day on his side or a week he couldn't know, and his spine had tingled with the urge to run.

But he knew he was in no condition. Fatigue made his body thrum with a deep ache as he restlessly prowled the ground floor of the house. The muscles around his shoulders felt seared from dislocating them and all the fighting after, and his leg had started throbbing again after his jaunt the night of their arrival. With the body's processes frozen in cryosleep, recovery and healing were impossible, and it was as though only a few days had passed since their escape from the planet, rather than over three months. He could take the skiff and jump this planet, but wherever he woke up he'd still be injured, and if he woke up to trouble, he'd be fucked.

No, he needed to lay low, buy himself time to recover, and, if he was lucky, for whatever trail he had left since the crash to go cold, for at least some of the mercs to convince themselves he really was dead. This house was the safest place he would find. One week, he had calculated. One week, and then he'd be gone.

If he could keep himself in one place that long. Alone with his flight instinct, and with the melange of unfamiliar noises from the street keeping his hackles raised, he had been ready to crawl out of his skin. Unlike Jack, who seemed to have found something to occupy her upstairs, there was nothing to distract himself with down here.

Which had made him immediately question: just what the hell _had_ she been doing up there the past two days?

He had looked up at the doorways at the top of the stairs. He didn't really want to go up and find out. He certainly didn't want to give the kid any idea that he was looking for company. She'd trail him all over the house if he gave her an opening. He wouldn't be able to peel her off him the next week if he did, he knew.

But his restlessness and curiosity had gotten the better of him, and he had climbed the stairs, taking them two at a time.

He had found her in the study beneath one of the large open windows, surrounded by stacks of books she had pulled down from the rickety, dusty shelves. She sat indian style on the floor, hunched intensely over a book that took up her entire lap and completely oblivious to his presence, the ragged, sun-bleached curtains caught by an arid breeze drifting lazily above her head.

He had put a hand on the doorjamb and considered her with amusement. "Never figured you for a bookworm, kid," he'd smirked.

Her head had snapped up, her eyes wide and primal and her body tensed, like an animal caught in a beam of light and about to bolt. But her startled expression had dissolved almost immediately into a guarded sheepishness as she realized it was him. "I was looking for something."

He had come over and sat on the floor with one leg drawn up and the other extended out in front of him, his back against a pillar between two windows. A pile of books sat between them, and he'd picked up the first one, reading the title. _Politics in the Era of the Foundation Empires._ Glancing over the tomes splayed around her, he had realized they were all history books. "You find it?" he'd asked, dropping his book back on top of the stack.

"No," she had answered dejectedly. "All these books are too old."

"Then what d'you get your nose stuck to?"

Her face had brightened with the anticipation of telling him, like she had uncovered a tantalizing secret. "The Ethorian Deception," she'd begun. "See, three hundred years back, there was the Ethorian System and the Diveri System. And the Diveri system was more powerful, had more planets, had this bad ass army, and weapons in orbit around their planet, right? But the Ethorian System had more money. They had these platonium mines and gem harvesting , and sold their stuff everywhere. So the Diverians decided they wanted what Ethoria had, and thought they could take them, 'cause Ethoria had this puny little army and no planetary defense system.

"So they loaded their kick ass army onto ships, and left just a few guys on Diveri, cause no one had ever gotten past the defense system. And when they got to Ethoria, they attacked the cities. They thought that Ethoria was surrendering, even though they'd never gotten a message of surrender, 'cause no one fought back. But when they landed and got out on the ground, they realized that it was empty. There wasn't any one there."

"In the cities?" Riddick had asked, resting his head back against the column and feigning interest. He couldn't really see what was supposed to be so fascinating about this, but she was obviously caught up in the story, and at least it beat pacing like a caged animal downstairs.

"No, the entire _planet_."

He'd raised his head and turned to looked at her sharply. "What do you mean 'the entire planet?'"

His words had rolled harshly in his throat, as though he suspected she was fucking with him, and he'd expected her to flinch away from him. People usually did when he used that voice; but she'd only grinned with excitement, even leaning toward him as she exclaimed, "I mean _the entire planet was deserted!_ The Ethorians caught wind that the Diverian army was coming, and knew their army wouldn't last a second against the Diverians. So they ditched. They blew the entrance to the mines to hide them and transferred info to allies or took it with them on data chips. They all ran off to other planets, and the Ethorian army took their ships and disappeared. When the Diverian army got there, they thought the mines had been destroyed, and all the systems planet-wide had been wiped."

Riddick had eyed her curiously from behind his goggles, intrigued despite himself. "Where'd the Ethorian army go?"

She had smiled like someone scheming. "Diveri. Their army sucked, but they had secretly bought this electronic pulse weapon that disrupted whatever they shot it at, right? And they took out the planetary defense system, slaughtered the soldiers that had got left behind, and took over the planet, then turned the defense system back on. So the Diveri army comes home, trying to figure out what the hell happened, and start getting shot by their own weapons. They have to surrender, and the Diveri system becomes Ethorian territory."

Riddick had leaned his head back, considering the ceiling pensively. "And all the Ethorians have to do is go home, open up the mines, and transfer the data back to their systems," he'd said slowly, savoring the pleasure of wrapping his mind around a strategy. "Hm."

"A few hundred dead to take Diveri, and a piss worth of damage to Ethoria," she'd crooned victoriously, her face vibrant with the excitement of discovery.

He had scrutinized her sidelong for a moment before taunting, "Aren't you supposed to be playing with dolls, or some shit?"

"Like hell," she'd snarled as viciously as she could, and proudly given him the finger.

"You got some nerve, kid," he'd growled hotly. His jaw had twitched with the effort of suppressing a grin, but damn if he was going to let the kid know that he was getting a kick out of messing with her, and he knew the twitch made him look angrier.

He'd expected her to be rattled at having his wrath turned towards her. But instead she'd beamed as if he'd given her a compliment. And for a strange, fleeting moment he had felt exposed, like a wall of his defenses had been revealed to be nothing more than air. He'd found himself staring at her, trying to determine whether she had really known he was baiting her, or if it was just that she trusted him so unconditionally that she feared not even his anger. But her face had been so guileless that neither possibility had unnerved him as much as it should, and the moment had passed almost without notice.

"…What were you looking for?"

Her bright expression had guttered and gone out, her face clouding with bottled turmoil, and she had looked down at the book in her lap without seeing it, her fingers worrying the fraying corner of the cover. "Meaning," she had said hesitantly.

"Meaning of what, kid?" he'd asked gruffly.

She had shrugged morosely with one shoulder. "Life, I guess. Why everything's like it is. …Why the hell I'm here," she had murmured bitterly.

_Survivor's guilt_, Riddick had thought. He suspected it had hit Imam first, back on the skiff, but the holyman had been keeping himself busy with prayers and now work. He'd been wondering when Jack's would kick in; about, it seemed, the same time as his exhaustion, when the momentum of running had finally stopped. She'd seemed okay yesterday evening, but he was learning this kid had a talent for keeping things to herself. It had probably hit her like a ton of bricks. _So that's what she's been doing up here the past two days._

"Think you got the wrong books."

She had looked up at him with choked anguish. "What are we alive for? 'Cause we could have died too, right? Why'd we make it? What decides who lives and who dies?"

_A Fucker on a power trip_, Riddick had thought, but he only told her. "Ask Imam."

She had snorted, a hint of her usual spark passing over her face. "Yeah, I know what he'd say." She'd straightened, putting on a tranquil face, and had spoken with exaggerated conviction, "'Child, we are created by God so that we may know His love and help others to know that love through us. It is to love God and to love our fellow man for which we are made. Love is the greatest commandment. Love is the highest calling…'"

This time Riddick could not hold back a huff of laughter at her imitation, and he'd gibed her, "I don't know, kid, I think Imam's got himself a junior."

"I'll play with dolls first," she'd decried; but Riddick knew that even if Jack didn't idolize Imam the way she did him, she still listened to the man when he talked. Obviously.

The playfulness had fallen again from her face. "Seriously, Riddick, what are we doing here? I mean, all those people out there," she had looked over her shoulder at the window, where the sounds of people milling and late afternoon traffic had drifted in from below, then back at him, "what do they think they're living for? They're just going to die sooner or later. So what's the point?"

_Shit, _Riddick swore silently. Did she really expect him to answer that? He'd scrutinized her for a moment, her pained face open and expectant. _Yeah_, he'd realized. She did. Heavy questions for a twelve year old girl, but he supposed that if anyone had a reason to be asking them, after all she had seen on T-2 it was her. He was seriously tempted to foist her off on Imam, to tell the girl again to wait till the holyman got home and ask him. But Jack's impression of the cleric had been flawless, and he'd probably say something exactly along those lines – or, he realized, Jack's imitation might have been so impressive because she had asked him already. Great words for out here in the light and civilization; but Jack had seen something darker, a place barren of a loving and merciful God, and the holyman's answer wasn't going to cut it.

The sun had edged below the tallest of the buildings outside across the street, and the sky had been shimmering with the first hints of evening's gold. It was bright, but not blinding, and Riddick had pulled the goggles off his head with a low rumble of frustration. He'd turned and looked Jack in the eyes hard, his shine piercing in the last light of the afternoon. "I don't know if there's a point to life, but there is _no_ fucking point to being dead. Got it?"

Somehow this had been enough. Relief had flooded her face as his words sank in, and she had smiled brilliantly. "Point taken," she'd answered.

Riddick had studied her a moment longer, concealing his curiosity behind a cool expression, before glancing at the book in her lap. "Anything else good in there?"

---

A/N: See why this was such an insanely difficult scene? I'm proud of this section, and I'm _still_ not sure I got the characterization right! Let me know what you think, please!


	4. Redux III

**A/N:** Sorry it took me so long to update! I had to do a 30 page report on how to adapt Gandhi's nonviolence philosophies to Islam and a theological analysis of all 1243 pages (!) of Pullman's _His Dark Materials_ trilogy (which, if you're following the debates over _The Golden Compass _movie, is _not _atheist: it's advocating the theology found in Zurvanism – find the reference to the Zoroastrian heresy during the cocktail party at Mrs. Coulter's in the first book, then go look up Zoroastrianism and its heresy, Zurvanism). Absolute insanity!

This section's not really complete, but I wanted to updated it so you guys knew I hadn't stopped writing. This section is all Imam. I think it came out kind of dry, but let me know what you think (please!) And there's action coming soon, I promise!!

I realize the prologue is getting insanely long. I should have made it it's own story. Oh well. I may be the author, but the story writes itself. I only record it in words as best I can. I'm going to go back and change the first couple sections so that it's written as a flashback so I can take out all the obnoxious 'had's littered throughout it.

**Just a Reminder**: In case anyone forgot or doesn't know, Imam's faith in the canon is Chrislam, a fusion of Christianity and Islam which believes Jesus was the Son of God and was crucified for humanity's salvation from sin, but that Muhammad was also the last prophet. There is explanation for what I do with scripture in this chapter at the end.

--

Imam stepped into the humid air of the house an hour later, his arms laden with bags, and immediately noticed the stillness. Walking through the dappled, honeyed light shining through the latticed shutters, he quietly set the bags down on the kitchen counter and looked around him in worry. There was no sign of Riddick.

For an instant, Imam feared the younger man had left; but before the thought could fully form, Jack's voice drifted from the doorway of the study above, and to Imam's relief Riddick's dark voice answered. The words were indistinguishable but his tone was caustic, and Jack's laughter cascaded down the stairs.

Imam looked up in the direction of their voices with surprise. Downstairs had immediately become Riddick's space, and to Imam's wonder the girl had respected it. If anything, he'd expected Jack's curiosity to get the better of her, and to come home to find her pestering the man. But they were upstairs, and a small smile brightened Imam's face as he realized that Jack had not come down: Riddick must have gone up and looked for her.

So there was still hope. Maybe more than he'd first thought.

Imam walked around the counter into the tiny kitchen, and began sorting out ingredients from the two bags of food he'd bought in the marketplace on the way home: chicken, with cinnamon and fresh ginger to spice; peppers and onions for roasting and chopping into to a bed of couscous; and sweet tangelos for desert, heavy and soft with juice. The three of them had been living on rations and cryodried food for weeks. This would be their first real meal since the crash, and Imam fought back a stab of grief at the unbidden thought of the other survivors, those who had not made it. He closed his eyes, unconsciously fingering the prayer beads that hung at his waist, trying to hold onto the elation that had gripped him in prayer that afternoon, that feeling of being face to face with God. But the reality of those rare, intense moments never lasted long. Already the certainty he had felt standing in the prayer hall was fleeting and the memory dreamlike, leaving him with only faith that the words he had heard had really been meant for him.

…_Do not grieve the Holy Spirit of God, who marked all of you with a seal for the day of redemption…_

Jack's voice rose and fell in and out of his hearing, occasionally joined by an incomprehensible quip from Riddick, and Imam stood listening for a long moment. Their lives lay within Allah's plan too, and the thought that his god still had designs for a murderer and a rough twelve year old girl was the only thing that brought Imam a kind of serenity. Maybe those they had lost on the planet had died not because they were the most deserving of suffering, but because those who had lived were the most deserving of a second chance at peace. Certainly if anyone was in need of it, it was the two of them.

And he would make that his reason for living, he decided, until Allah reveal to him another.

His heart eased at this thought, Imam set to making dinner. Pungent ginger, peeled and grated, and a couple curled sticks of cinnamon went into the cavity of the chicken, and on inspiration he grated a few pinches of zest from the peels of the tangelos and sprinkled that in as well. Then the whole thing went into a stone bowl and into the wavering heat of the oven. Peppers and onions sliced and laid out on a tray went in above it, and on the stove he set a pot of water and poured in the grains.

His only lingering doubt as he worked was whether Riddick might stay long enough to have a chance to find that peace. Imam knew the younger man was restless – he'd seen it last night over dinner in the man's taciturn silence, like he were listening to something else neither Imam nor Jack could hear, and in his unusual stillness, as though he were holding himself coiled and ready to spring. It was subtle, and Imam would not have noticed it when they first met; but in Imam's work, hearing what people wanted to confess and didn't was often far more important than helping them come to terms with what they did tell him. After a couple week's worth of waking days with Riddick he was slowly beginning to learn, in fleeting epiphanies and ghosts of insight, how to understand the man when he didn't speak. And watching him, Imam had realized how close Riddick was to running, and losing this chance to leave his past behind him.

But he had an idea.

As whispering swirls of steam began to uncurl from the surface of the water, Imam turned back to the rest of the bags. Three contained clothing he had bought for them, guessing at Jack's and Riddick's size. They'd had only the clothing they'd had on their backs when they woke from the crash, but despite washing them three times the day of their arrival, they still smelled faintly of dust and sweat and the cutting metallic scent of the creatures' blood, and washing did nothing to fade the blue splatters. Imam had been wearing an old robe he had found in a closet to work, but it was ill-fit and threadbare, and Riddick and Jack had been stuck with their ripped and stained clothes. It would be good, Imam thought, to finally wear something clean and that fit.

But it was the remaining two bags that he reached for, pausing to listen apprehensively for a moment for any sound that Riddick or Jack were coming down. Hearing them still occupied above, he opened the bags and began pulling items out: wires, boxes of washers and screws, packages of bolts, synth-rubber seals, a metal-encased motor the size of a bowl, and the adapters the man at the hardware shop said he would need for it.

To Imam and Jack's relief (Riddick had remained as indifferent as ever), they had discovered the house had an under-floor cooling system beneath the tiles, with a vent to every room to pump cool air throughout the house during the intense heat of the New Meccan days. To their disappointment, it was broken. They had found the air cooler in the hall closet upstairs, and Riddick had crawled in to examine it. It was busted, he'd reported as he'd backed out, some piece of the machinery he had called by techno-jargon that was incomprehensible to the cleric, and they had closed the closet door, adding it to the long and growing list of things that needed to be fixed.

Since watching Riddick's restlessness the night before, Imam had worried. The disquiet had crept into bed with him and followed him to work in the morning, pulling at his thoughts and weighing on his soul. Imam didn't know how long Riddick had been on the run, but he had the impression it had been years. It was obviously unnatural to him to stay in one place like this, and Imam knew with dreaded certainty that Riddick would disappear if he couldn't keep himself on New Mecca long enough to realize the possibility of a new life.

At the call for zenith prayers, Imam had performed his ablutions before a copper faucet, the crystalline water laced with light as it tumbled down onto the turquoise tiles and swirled into the drain. The sight of the sweet water had elicited a pang of sorrow that clinched Imam's chest as he was struck again by the memory of the other survivors, and the memory of the students he had been leading on pilgrimage. He had thought when all the boys had miraculously survived the crash that it was a blessing from Allah. But what had happened afterwards… "Inna lillahi wa inna ilahi raji'un," he'd whispered against his grief, clutching the prayer beads that dangled from his belt. _We are all from Allah and it is to Him we are returning._ "So many deaths…" It was all in Allah's will, he knew. He _knew_ that. There were reasons they had all been taken, reasons he and Jack and Riddick had lived. But there was so little comfort when he didn't know what those reasons were. If only he knew Allah's plan for him, knew what He wanted from him, maybe it wouldn't hurt so much that Allah had not chosen another to live. Maybe he would not feel so guilty to be so glad to be alive.

He had washed his arms, his face, his feet, feeling himself slipping into the state of prayer where nothing outside of the moment mattered, when he felt Allah closer to him than the vein in his neck – and had found the worry about Riddick still heavy in his chest. _Maybe I was wrong to think he would possibly stay. Maybe I am mistaken to think he __should__. There is some good in the man – we would not have survived if he had not returned for us. But is it enough? How can he start over when he cannot even see himself as anything but a criminal? Could he even find peace living in a society that would see him treated like an animal? And the man embraces violence… He's had to. But could he let that go? Does he know anything else?_ he had thought, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration. _Perhaps I just want something good to come out of all this, to justify all that has gone wrong. But there's been so much lost already. If the man has any chance… Allah, help me know how to help him._

The answer had not come to him then, but later in afternoon prayers as Imam had stood barefoot in row with the rest of the mosque's staff, and followed the ayatollah in worship. As the elderly man's sonorous voice had called out the greatness of Allah, Imam had raised his hands in unison with the others, then laid them, right over left, above his navel and bowed his head as the ayatollah had begun to sing the opening.

"_In the name of God,_

_The Merciful, The Compassionate._

_The Praise belongs to God_

_Lord of the worlds,_

_The Merciful, The Compassionate,_

_One Who is Sovereign on the Day of Judgment._

_You alone we worship,_

_And to you Alone we pray for help._

_Guide us on the straight path,_

_the path of those to whom _

_You have been gracious,_

_not ones against whom You are angry,_

_nor the ones who go astray."_

Imam had taken a deep breath, trying in vain to release the clutter of his thoughts and be present in the prayer. But as the ayatollah had begun the chosen recitation from scripture, the passage he chanted had blown Imam's thoughts away like dead leaves, and in the sudden clarity of his mind Imam had listened, hyperaware of every word.

"_Put aside your old selves, _

_which belong to your old way of life, _

_and is corrupted by things _

_that lead you down the wrong path. _

_Be renewed in the spirit of your minds, _

_and put on the New Selves_

_that have been created by God's principles,_

_in the uprightness and holiness of the truth. _

_From now on, there must be no more lies._

_Speak the truth to one another, _

_since we are all parts of each other._

_Even if you are angry, do not sin;_

_never let the sun set on your anger._

_Leave no room for the devil."_

Imam had stood, in thrill and fear with the feeling that he was being spoken to; but it was the next words that had shaken him and set his heart thudding in his chest.

"_He who has been stealing must steal no longer, _

_but rather let him work, _

_doing something useful with his own hands. _

_Then he will be able to help those in need. _

_Let no evil word or unwholesome talk cross your lips, _

_but only such speech as is good_

_and beneficial to the spiritual progress of another,_

_according to their needs, _

_that it may be a blessing to those who hear it. _

_Do not grieve the Holy Spirit of God, _

_who marked all of you with a seal for the day of redemption. _

_Let all bitterness, indignation, and wrath, _

_every resentment and quarrel and slander _

_be far removed from you. _

_And become useful and helpful and kind to one another, _

_compassionate, forgiving each other _

_as readily as God forgave you in Christ._

_Allahu Akbar!"_

He had been so engulfed in elated transcendence and fearful awe, that Imam had almost forgotten to bow, only remembering when everyone else around him lowered themselves. _Let him work, doing something useful with this own hands._ To give Riddick a way to distract himself from the urge to run; to give him a sense of purpose; to give him a way to see that he _could_ be of use here, that he could be needed. It seemed so obvious now – and Imam had known immediately how to do it: the cooling system in the hall closet. If Riddick could figure out how it was broken, Imam bet he knew how to fix it. _Then he will be able to help those in need. _He had hardly dared to think about what those words might promise – that was between Riddick and God – but had thrown himself enthusiastically into the rest of the prayer, and was sure of the closeness of Allah.

The ecstasy of revelation had already been retreating by the time Imam had left work; but if encroaching doubt had tempted him to think twice about his whether his idea would work, discovering the hardware store sitting right next to the fruit stall had made at least trying it unavoidable. Resolutely, he had stepped inside and wandered the aisles of strange objects until he had found a clerk stocking a shelf. The words Riddick had used for the broken components might as well have been a foreign language for all the cleric understood them, but he was able to remember them well enough to give a garbled version to the clerk, who had been able to figure out what Imam meant.

Now Imam took the parts he had bought and set them together on the counter that faced the living room. Imam could guess that if he asked Riddick to fix the cooling unit, the man wouldn't do it, just to make sure Imam knew he wasn't going to start taking suggestions from anyone. But leave the parts sitting where Riddick could see them, let the idea suggest itself, and maybe… "Insha'Allah," he murmured. _If God wills._

--

Please tell me if that was really dry! I tried to make it interesting, but I don't know if I pulled it off. Suggestions and flames welcome. Thanks!

**Scripture Notes:** The first part of the prayer is the traditional opening of the Muslim prayer, and also the first chapter of the Qur'an. This translation I took from _The Sublime Quran_ translated by Laleh Bakhtiar, and if anyone is interested in reading the Quran, I highly recommend this translation both for its level of scholarship and how easy and beautiful it is to read.

After the opening of the prayer, a section of scripture to be recited from memory is chosen by the person leading the prayer. Since Imam's faith is Chrislam, I guessed this meant the Bible would be considered official scripture along with the Quran. The passage I used is from the New Testament, Ephesians 4:22-32. I looked at fifteen different translations of the section, but couldn't find just one that really worked. So I took different lines from five different translations and pieced them together, so the meaning of the text is still the same, but the wording better fits Imam's situation. The translations I used were: New International Reader's Version (NIRV); New International Version (NIV); Today's New International Version (TNIV); Amplified Bible (AMP); and the New Jerusalem Bible (NJV). I think I used this last one the most; it's my favorite translation of the Bible I've found so far, but I'm not sure whether it's the most scholarly.

… And now has any doubt what my major is. ;-)


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